


Where The Wild Things Roam

by oneiriad



Series: Centaur!Mick [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Centaurs, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 21:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12713118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: Having given the matter some thought, I have decided that there are parts of this chapter which I do not feel the world is as yet ready to hear. The country has come a long way since my youth, but I fear we still have a long way to go. Therefore, I shall write another version of this chapter, editing out any unsuitable references, which will be used for my published ”Memoirs”. This draft I will leave, along with certain other papers, in the care of my grandson Bart, in the hope that some day it can come to light.





	Where The Wild Things Roam

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Swifter than Rumor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525155) by [nirejseki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki). 



Excerpt from the new and unabridged edition of Barry Allen's ”Memoirs”, published 2017 by the Gem Cities University Press.

Chapter 4. - The unpublished draft

'Twas in those days that I first crossed paths with the infamous outlaws Leonard Snart and Mick Rory.

Today, of course, everybody know those names, thanks to certain events that my reader will be perfectly familiar with, quite possibly even from the type of school lessons that make even exciting subjects such as these seem horribly dull. At the time, though, they were at the beginning of their careers and, apart from a single dime novel that I know for a fact was sold as far afield as London, they were still mostly unknown outside of the local area. 

They also happened to be on the list of people that my superiors at the Pinkerton Agency had provided me with along with instructions to apprehend without delay any of the individuals upon it, should they ever cross my path.

Which brings me to a certain autumn day a couple of years after that unfortunate business with the lightning, where I was pondering the centaur in the paddock

Now, understand that this was in the early years of Central, long before it dropped the Waystation part of its name, back while it was still mostly a small village providing useful services to the surrounding farmers. As such, the sheriff – who also served as station manager and post master – did not yet have a proper jail in which to put the occasional lawbreaker. Instead, a small shed behind his house would be pressed into service whenever necessary, and at this time of year the prisoner would have been provided with blankets, or – if trusted not to take undue advantage thereof – a small, portable stove.

Alas, the shed did have the failing of being far too small to contain a centaur.

Which is why the paddock that would normally have held the horses of any farmer staying overnight had been equipped with a strong lock and pressed into service. The centaur – my reader has no doubt already correctly deduced his identity – Mick Rory had been shackled on hand and foot, the metal chains preventing him from stretching far enough to either kick down the solid fence or leap it.

It was far from a perfect arrangement and would not serve at all once the snow came. It was sincerely hoped that the circuit judge would come before then and the whole unfortunate matter could be dealt with.

Eventually, I turned from my ponderings to enter Sheriff West's house. My fiancée, Miss West, had invited me to sup with them, and we shared a pleasant meal.

Afterwards I shared my intended scheme with the Sheriff. I explained to him my conviction that Mick Rory was, in fact, not a hardened criminal, but an abused Animan who had been lead astray by the lowest sort of man, the infamous Leonard Snart, a simple robber and deserter, who had pretended friendship when others failed to offer the genuine article.

My readers may think me naive, though I do hope that perhaps some day we shall have a more enlightened world, where the treatment of the Animen will not be based on those horrible slanders that ”everybody knows” - everybody knows that selkies are prostitutes, everybody knows that tengus steal, everybody knows that the kaftar eat children. Throughout my life – from those early years in the orphanage of Mistress Love-Not Bunyan, where the tengu boy Jimmy would smuggle me parts of his own meager dinner whenever I had been locked in the cellar once more for obstinately refusing to admit that I was making up lies about the horrible death of my mother, to far later, when I was involved in the horrible story of the murder of the selkie Miss Gráinne McManus – it has been my experience that the Animen are no less humane than the rest of us.

Sheriff West was initially unconvinced by my intended scheme of offering to secure Rory a pardon in exchange for him divulging the whereabouts of Snart, but I succeeded in swaying his daughter to my point of view and through our combined efforts, his consent was secured.

I had not, by the time I undertook this scheme, secured the consent of my superiors, but I was certain that Snart was the real prize they wanted, as his bounty was considerably larger than Rory's.

The next morning I undertook the task of bringing the captive centaur his breakfast – a solid pot of oatmeal, which I had prevailed upon Miss West to improve with sugar and a generous helping of dried berries. My thought was to start persuading Rory of my friendly intent through providing him with better fare than the usual food provided prisoners.

He acted suspicious of me at first, glaring down at me and turning his breakfast into a display of horrid table manners. Still, I waited patiently for him to finish his meal and put the pot down before making my case to him.

At first he snorted. I believe he would have stamped his feet in annoyance, had the shackles not restrained him, and when I finished, he turned his tail end towards me, doing what horses do.

”Betray Snart? Because of course the f***king B****** can be expected to leap at the chance, is that right? F***off, you bally Pinkerton.”

Still, I persevered, making liberal use of certain pamphlets printed by the Humane Friends of the Animan Society in Boston, and slowly, but surely I succeeded in making him see the benefits of my suggestion: a pardon and a fresh start, all in exchange for simply telling me the whereabouts of Snart.

Alas, it turned out to be less straightforward than that.

Rory explained, eventually, that while he and Snart would regularly frequent a number of settlements, both within the States and such as had sprung up in what was strictly speaking Indian Territory, Snart would not be likely to be in any of them at the moment.

Apparently, he and Snart had an arrangement – if, during one of their heists, they were to become separated, they should both seek to make their way to a certain area near an old abandoned mining town, and he believed that Snart was to be found there. Unfortunately, if any but Rory were to approach the area, Snart would spot them and make good his escape with ease. In fact, even if Rory were to approach, if he was accompanied by a great number of strangers, Snart would still not allow them to approach him - ”He's a sneaky son of a b****, Snart, and he can smell an ambush from a mile away,” as Rory put it.

Eventually, it was decided that I would venture forth to capture Leonard Snart with only Mick Rory for company and aid. Admittedly, it was a less than ideal situation, but needs must.

I managed to acquire some decent travelling clothes for the Animan, provisions for the trip – which we estimated would be some four or five days, depending on the weather, and as long back again – as well as two sturdy horses – one for me to ride, while the other would carry the majority of our provisions on the way out and our captive on the way back.

As for Rory himself, I was not so naive as to leave him free to wander. Alone I could never have managed the size of cart required to transport a captive centaur, and the shackles around his legs would have been impractical for travel use, but I had his arms chained in front of him and put him in a sort of yoke-like contraption alongside the second horse. The yoke's creator, my dear friend Mr. Ramon, assured me that it would serve to keep even a centaur the size of Rory from absconding without my leave.

When we were almost ready to leave, Sheriff West pulled me aside before I could mount my horse to share a concern which had occurred to him.

”Say you're right. Say Snart is no true friend of Rory's. Maybe then this entire plan to meet up again is merely some pretty lie he spun What if Rory's leading you astray all unknowingly, while Snart's already halfway to Frisco?”

”If that's the case, I'll simply bring Mr. Rory back and plead his case and willingness to cooperate before the judge. But I doubt it. Mr. Snart would be a fool to so easily let as valuable a ressource as a cooperative centaur slip through his fingers.”

The sheriff looked unconvinced, but he did not try to stop us as we departed.

We made good time – the brisk autumn winds encouraged it – and reached the forest in which Rory claimed his partner in crime would be hiding out in the early afternoon on the fourth day.

We had discussed how best to capture Snart, and so we left the horses hobbled close to a small pond, and then I removed the chains from Rory. He rubbed his arms and scratched at where the chains had irritated one of his burn scars, then – as agreed upon – he made his way into the forest.

I followed, revolvers at the ready, taking care to keep him within my sights and myself out of sight.

It was such a simple plan. Rory would wander the forest, waiting for Snart to show up, and then lure him into an open area, where I could easily step out and hold him at gun point before he'd even have time to draw his own piece.

It was such a simple plan.

Very little time passed before a voice was heard: ”Mick! I was beginning to think I'd need to come break you out of some cell!”

”Nah, Snart. Just took me a bit to shake the law off my tail.”

Where I was hiding behind some evergreens I could not see the two outlaws properly, but I could tell that Rory was following his part of the plan, leading Snart towards a clearing suitable for an ambush.

We had arranged a code phrase: to signal that Snart was in position, Rory would use the word ”Gotham”, and so, when he suggested to Snart that they might consider moving their activities to that city for a while, I stepped forward, drawing my revolvers.

Only to find myself face to face with a Leonard Snart pointing his own weapon right at me.

Still, all was not lost. Since that business with the lightning, none have been as fast a shot as I. It's a downright uncanny thing. Even in my current old age, I have yet to find my match. Except then there was an almighty crash and I turned, dangerously distracted, to find a great tree – long since dead from lightning strike judging by the blackened wood, the edges crumbling from the feasting of insects – falling on me.

The last thing I saw before it fell on me and quite thoroughly knocked me out was Mick Rory the centaur, smirking as he turned to face me directly on the other side of the tree.

I confess, I did not expect to wake again.

***

I came to myself in the night dark forest.

For a brief moment I imagined the pair had simply abandoned me, alone and injured in the wilderness, but I was swiftly disabused of that notion. My arms were twisted behind my back and firmly held in the very chains I had brought for Snart, and my legs were in a similar state. There was heat at my back which I guessed came from a fire, and from somewhere behind came noises that I could not immediately place.

I considered and then rejected the notion of pretending to still be unconscious in order to seek some advantage. I was as well trussed as a Christmas goose and utterly helpless.

Turning to face the fire was an unpleasant experience. My body ached. Later I found that I was covered in bruises and shallow cuts from where the tree trunk has struck me, and I am certain that my ribs had taken a beating. Eventually, I managed to settle myself facing the low fire, but it was neither a graceful nor an unobtrusive process.

The noises had stopped.

From the other side of the fire Mick Rory came stomping.

If any of my readers have never met a centaur in person – for they are, in truth, a fairly rare sight – I am not sure how to convey exactly how very tall they are. Mick Rory was uncommonly tall, even for a centaur, and I was bound and lying on the cold ground, making him appear taller still.

Angrier, as well, his hooves slamming into the dirt and whirling up twigs and leaves and his tail lashing to and fro as he walked around the fire.

Reaching me he stopped, only to abruptly rear up, slicing the air with his front hooves. If I had not managed to scramble backwards, they'd have crushed my legs as he planted them firmly back on the ground.

A furious Mick Rory was a terrifying sight.

He was also entirely nude, having shed even the leather apron he habitually wore tied around his waist and between his front legs, and to put it delicately he was in a state of excitement.

”Well, Pinkerton?! Still think the stupid B******'s going to wag his tail and be your bloodhound for a pat on the head and a treat? Still think Snart's ”taking advantage of my simple nature”?”

Again he reared, planting his hooves – how had I never noticed how very huge and sharp they were, how very murderous? - on either side of my shoulders. Then he lifted one of them, pushing it under my chin and forcing me look straight up, directly at his proud member. It seemed to glisten in the light of the fire.

”Do I still look f***ing oppressed to you?!”

”You look,” came a slightly hoarse drawl from the darkness beyond the fire, ”like a centaur who'll be minding his own p**** tonight if he doesn't stop playing with our guest and comes back here.”

For a moment he seemed about to argue the point. Then he looked down at my no doubt frightened face and snorted, before finally moving that hoof. I breathed a sigh of relief – however temporary that relief might turn out to be – at the sight of him walking back around the fire.

Of course I had heard the rumours, but I had dismissed them as nothing more than the vile slander that clings to any who willingly keep company with the Animen. Clearly, I had misjudged the situation.

As it was, all I could do was close my eyes and pretend not to hear the noises that had started up again, and which I was now very aware what signified. Instead, I sought to occupy my mind by wondering exactly how they had planned their ambush: had it been long since pre-arranged in the event of exactly the eventuality which had come to pass? Or had Rory managed to worldlessly convey their danger to Snart and a plan been made on the spot?

Eventually the noises ceased.

I kept my eyes shut. I kept them shut as steps – human steps – approached me, and as I could sense somebody kneeling down in front of my. I kept them shut as a gloved hand took hold of my chin and once more tilted my face backwards.

”I know you're not sleeping, Pinkerton. Open your eyes.”

Unlike his partner in crime, Leonard Snart did not seem angry.

He moved my head from side to side and up and down for a bit, eventually sighing and letting go.

”Well, at least it doesn't look like that tree managed to knock anything loose,” he commented, cocking his head like a curious bird. His eyes were blue and cold as winter itself. 

”Do you have a name, Pinkerton?”

”Allen. Barry Allen.”

”Well - what are we going to do with you now, Barry Allen?”

***

In the morning it was decided that they were going to keep me.

Naturally, I argued strenously against this, pointing out the disadvantages as well as the simple fact that if Snart took one or both of the horses for his own use, then the pair of them would be well away by the time I'd have made my way to some sort of civilization.

Rory argued that he'd like for me to be tied between the horses and himself, in the manner the centaur executioners of certain depraved old European monarchies had once been infamous for (at least according to certain dime novels), but compared to the previous night he seemed much mellowed and mostly as if he was arguing on general principle.

But in the end, it was Snart's desire to keep me for a hostage for the foreseeable future that won the field.

Our horses happily came to Snart, nosing at him and munching on the pieces of dried apple he offered. I expected he'd claim one for himself and that I'd be either mounted or – quite possibly – slung like a sack of potatoes across the back of the second. Instead, Snart first removed the hobbles and everything else, even the bits, and then sent them on their way. From what I later heard, they were found by a passing stagecoach a few days later and eventually made their way back to the farmer who had rented them to me.

Rory and Snart sorted through the remaining provisions and gear we had brought along, as well as what Snart himself had with him. Some they put in a solid pair of saddlebags and put on Rory's back, and the remainder they placed in a backpack, which they put on me, before securing my hands once more, this time in front of me.

Finally, a smirking Rory put a rope around my neck while Snart tied the other end of it securely around Rory's waist, right above where he had put on my gun belt. For a moment I was tempted to reach out and attempt to draw one of the revolvers, but he stepped back out of my range before I had made up my mind to dare the attempt.

I suppose I should have seen what happened next coming – and perhaps part of me had seen it coming ever since Snart let the horses run, yet it had never consciously occurred to me as a possibility.

Snart mounted Rory.

It was obviously a well-practiced move of his. He grasped Rory's arm firmly and swung himself up, settling comfortably on his partner's broad back.

Now, I'm sure my readers will understand that I was unable to suppress a horrified gasp. While most of the centaurs I've met throughout my life have been happy to show off their superior physical strength, then the act of riding one is viewed by most – Animen and men alike – as treating them as if they were beasts in truth.

It is simply not done.

And yet neither Rory nor Snart seemed at all displeased with this arrangement.

Rory started walking, and after a moment Snart glanced back at me still standing frozen in shock. He bent to tug at the rope, which was rapidly growing less slack, reminding me that I had the choice between keeping up or getting chocked.

By nightfall my body felt very ill-used. It had already been sore from having the dead tree fall on me, and on top of that came having to walk briskly to keep up with Rory. Once or twice he amused himself by picking up the pace, forcing me to run to keep up whilst whirling up a cloud of dust and dirt for me to choke on, but mostly he settled for a more sedate pace.

They left my hands unbound long enough for me to mind my somewhat pressing business and whilst the three of us shared a fairly decent meal of bacon and beans, then trussed me up as surely as the night before and left me to spend the night beneath a blanket.

The next morning found the pair of them scowling at the cloudy skies.

”Well need to pick up our pace,” Rory commented, turning his scowl in my direction. ”With luck we can make it to that abandoned mining town before it gets started.”

We didn't. The snow started falling before noon, and it fell heavily. I stumbled along, torn between being grateful that the snow had slowed Rory somewhat and being as convinced that we needed to urgently find some suitable shelter as he.

The wind picked up as well, howling like a thousand wolves, and turning the world around us as white as the ground.

At some point I fell and felt the noose tighten, barely managing to get some fingers between the rope and my throat to avoid getting strangled, and then I was most ignominiously dragged through the snow for a couple of minutes, spluttering the entire way.

Then Snart was there, pulling me to my feet and supporting me to Rory's side. For a while we walked through the snow like that, but I kept stumbling and having to climb back to my feet and run through the snow to catch up to the other two. My weary body was protesting the use it had been put through the last couple of days – and eventually I stumbled and realized that I couldn't get up.

The snow was so very soft. Surely, surely it would do not harm to let myself rest for just a short while?

My brain was snow-addled. That's my only excuse for my behaviour next.

Strong hands lifted me and somehow it dawned on me that I was getting hoisted up on Rory's back - and I started to struggle, trying to get away from the hands. I dimly remember a string of very coarse swearwords directed at me, and hands that tightened their holds as I squirmed. Looking back, I am sometimes amazed that they did not simply leave me there in the snow. It didn't at any point occur to me that they were trying to save my life. All I could think of was that they were putting me on the centaur's back, that they were trying to turn me into one of those awful humans who treat Animen as mere beasts.

Later, I had the opportunity to listen to Snart narrate this misadventure in a far more hospitable setting. His telling emphasized the ridiculousness of it, of having to tie me to Rory's back to avoid me ”falling off”, as he put it, but at the time humour must have been the farthest from either of their minds, as the snow kept falling and the wind's howls grew hungrier and neither of them were remotely dressed for winter.

I remember almost nothing of the rest of that day. At some point, I believe, Rory slipped and very narrowly avoided crashing down in such a way that he'd have squashed me entirely, but he managed to climb back to his feet and persevere.

And then, at some point – and this might just be something I've imagined later, as I cannot look back at these events without knowing what came later – I seem to remember the sound of a great gate being opened, the voices of strangers and opening my eyes I saw something glowing.

But as I said, that might have been merely my imagination.

***

I woke with a spoon in my mouth and spent the next few moments sputtering and choking on the mouthful of soup that the kind woman holding said spoon had been attempting to feed me.

Not my most elegant of introductions, I fear, but Mrs. Wilder took it in stride.

She helped me clean up the soup and to sit, offering me the remainder of the soup to eat myself, while answering my immediate questions.

”Where am I how? How long have I been asleep?” and so forth.

”I believe the town used to be named Rhyolite, back before it was abandoned along with the mine. Most of the buildings have fallen into disrepair, but this old barn is still sturdy and has been sheltering all of us since the blizzard started. And you've been lying in a fever these last three days, ever since your friends brought you here.”

”My – friends?”

”Why, yes, the good Mr. Snart and his Bea – his centaur companion. They've been terribly concerned about you.”

”Are they still here? They have not left?”

”Left? Dear Lord, Mr. Allen, the blizzard is still going. To leave would be suicide. Of course they have not left.”

At this news I staggered to my feet, ignoring Mrs. Wilder's earnest concern for my health, and staggered over to where two wagons had been parked in rough semi-circle and a nice fire lit in the middle, a few people sitting around it.

Occupying one entire side of the fire by himself was Mick Rory, legs neatly folded underneath him, and at the sight of him I froze – or rather, at the sight of the two small children who had clambered onto his back and were balancing precariously there.

Before I had time to gather my wits and say something that could not have been unsaid, an arm was slung around my shoulder and a voice greeted me warmly.

”Mr. Allen. So good to see you awake! But you look a right mess – come, let's get you cleaned up a bit. Mr. Wilder, could we trouble you for the use of one of your clean shirts?” and then, in a lower, colder toner, Snart continued, ”Play along, Pinkerton.”

Something was pressed into my side, just below ribs, and I was entirely correct in guessing that it was a revolver. So I played along as instructed, accompanying Snart to the corner of the barn where a washbasin had been placed, sheltered from view, and as I cleaned myself up with mostly cold water and changed into the clean shirt that a gentleman that I took to be Mr. Wilder brought me, Snart talked.

He explained that to his way of thinking, I had – though it had, of course, not been my intent - done him and Rory a favour by bringing about their reunion. In turn, he felt that not abandoning me in the snow to die had repaid that favour well enough, and so he proposed that we'd simply wait out the end of this too-early blizzard and bid each other farewell and good riddance at the end of it.

Naturally, this would necessitate that I not share the criminal history of Snart and Rory with the various strangers sharing the barn with us. Snart volunteered the information that he and Rory had presented themselves as wandering farm hands, who had been on their way to a farm where jobs had been promised them, and along the way they had come upon myself, a lone Pinkerton who had lost his horse and most of his gear to a random attack by the natives.

I considered my situation. On one hand, it was my duty – both as a Pinkerton and as a law-abiding citizen – to see Snart and Rory brought to justice. On the other hand, I was unarmed, Rory having apparently no intentions of relinquishing my revolvers at that point. I did owe the pair of them for not having abandoned me in the snow, and there was also the matter that, not knowing the other people in the barn, I had no way of knowing whether they'd assist me in apprehending the two outlaws or if they'd be more inclined to join them.

Also, there was the matter of the children I'd seen, who'd risk getting injured in any scuffle.

This was how I eventually justified agreeing to Snart's proposal. I demanded the return of my revolvers, which Snart swore would happen upon our parting, but apart from that I made no demands.

Snart introduced me to other people in the barn. There were Mr. and Mrs. Wilder, the owners of one of the two wagons which had been brought inside. The two children – a very young girl and an only slightly older boy – were theirs, and in addition they were accompanied on their trip to the plot of land given them by Mrs. Wilder's younger brother, Mr. Van de Berg. The second, somewhat smaller wagon belonged to a pair of brothers by the name of Mardon, who stated that their goal lay far away in San Francisco.

In addition, there were four horses, kept in the other end of the barn for now.

And so we all settled down to wait out the blizzard.

The barn was mostly warm and dry, the rest having fixed the worst of the holes in it while I lay in my fever. By mutual agreement we stayed mostly inside, only venturing outside to gather snow to melt for fresh water, to tend to certain necessities, and for the men to venture out in the abandoned town to gather firewood in the form of such dry planks and pieces of wooden furniture as they could find in the other houses.

Inside we amused ourselves as best we could, taking turns telling stories, playing cards and singing songs while the older Mardon, Mark, played a fiddle and the younger, Clyde, a Jew's harp. We all expected the blizzard to settle down in another day or two at most.

Except it didn't.

Slowly we started growing worried. The Wilders spoke in hushed voices whenever the children were busily amused by playing on Rory's back, reminding one another of the infamous misfortune of the Donner Party, though the rest of us assured them that we were still a long way from risking such a dreadful fate.

Then, one day, Mr. Wilder went out to gather firewood and did not come back.

At first we merely thought that he had gone a bit further afield, that perhaps the nearest of the houses had less properly dry wood to gather. Eventually, his wife, having gone outside to fill a bucket with snow, decided to investigate. Tying a rope around her waist to avoid getting lost in the blizzard, she followed the already half-blown-over trail he had left.

The rest of us came running at the sound of her screams.

Mr. Van de Berg took charge of his sister. The poor woman was hysterical, which was perfectly understandable considering the state of her husband. Had I found Miss West in a similar condition, I fear I would have been no more coherent than the poor widow.

The rest of us briefly examined the remains just enough to assure ourselves that there was indeed no hope left, and then in an attempt to determine which animal could be responsible for slaying and partly devouring the man. Could it have been a pack of wolves or a hungry bear? Perhaps a panther or a hidebehind?

”None of those,” Rory opined and pointed at a patch of snow, which lay sheltered and unstirred by the wind.

In that pristine snow was a single print of a cloven hoof, as if from a goat or a deer.

We gathered up the remains of Mr. Wilder and put them in the house closest to the barn, doing our level best to bar the door to keep anything from getting inside and eating the rest of him.

None of us as much as dared to whisper the word ”wendigo” until all were once more safely inside in the barn.

Back then, dear reader, the wendigo – that most dread of all wild things – was still shrouded in much mystery. Perhaps some day the exact nature of these things will be as well understood as many other mysteries of nature, but in my youth, they were still mostly known as perils of winter, hunters and eaters of man.

It was obvious that the wendigo must have come with the blizzard, and it seemed equally obvious that it would go away once the snow stopped falling. All we'd have to do was wait. We determined to only leave the safety of the barn when absolutely necessary, setting aside a corner next to the horses for use as a latrine, and agreed that any trip to fetch more firewood would be undertaken by no less than two armed men.

We thought these precautions sufficient – until two days later, when the older Mardon came running back, blood spattered on his clothing, and we ventured forth to find that Mr. Van de Berg had fallen as the wendigo's second victim.

We undertook an expedition to gather enough firewood in one trip to last us however long the blizzard would last – surely it could only be another day or two. Rory carried the most, as we ransacked what had once been the town's saloon, breaking old chairs and tables in pieces.

And then once more we waited.

Mrs. Wilder, meanwhile, had gone near mad with grief. The loss of her husband and her brother had brought her to the very edge of breaking, and while caring for her children seemed to do her some good, in the end, it did not do enough.

I am ashamed to say that it never even occurred to me to set a watch upon her in particular. If I had, perhaps we would not have woken one morning to find that she'd left the barn on her own, and none of us could say during whose shift she had done so. We put what was left of her with her husband, and then we settled down to talk.

Clearly, we had been overly optimistic in assuming that the wendigo would go away on its own, or that the blizzard would settle. As my readers are no doubt aware, it is nowadays the commonly held belief that these creatures actually bring the winter with them wherever they wander and not the other way around, but as I have said, in those days the creatures were still in many ways a mystery.

For instance, it was not yet common knowledge how we'd go about slaying one.

”I have an idea,” Rory stated, but refused to elaborate. Instead he handed me back my revolvers, claiming for himself a solid shotgun, which the late Mr. Wilder would no longer be needing, and ventured out with Snart. They returned back soon enough, a sack of something slung across Rory's back.

Neither of them seemed keen to share the details of their latest scheme at first, but then confided in me that they intended to lay an ambush for the beast. Admittedly, they mostly decided so to do because of the role they intended for me to play.

”Why should I trust either of you enough to play bait for a wendigo?” I demanded.

”Well, we'd have asked one of the Mardons, but they have their own scheme they mean to try – and out of the pair of you, you look the more appetizing these days,” Rory stated. This earned him a smack on the shoulder from his partner in crime, which he answered with a smirk. ”We'll lay an ambush for the wendigo, while Lenny stays here and minds the brats – or don't you trust me, Pinkerton?”

We determined to try the next morning. None of us slept that night. Instead, Snart and I gathered what silver we had between us - a few dollars and, to my sorrow, my mother's wedding ring, which I had always carried in a string around my neck and had been intending for Miss West to proudly wear some day – and cast them into a few silver bullets. They were not very good bullets, as neither of us were experienced gunsmiths, but they'd do, though whether the wendigo might be vulnerable to them was anybody's guess.

The next day Rory and I ventured out, the Mardons having already left on their own hunt. We went to a clearing where the edge of the town met the forest, where Rory intended to lay his trap, and he revealed the means by which he intended to slay the wendigo: sticks of dynamite abandoned by the mining company along with the town. I questioned whether they might still be of any use, but he assured me that, though one should be more careful than usually required when handling them, they would still serve.

Under Rory's direction, we planted the dynamite and covered it with snow, until we were satisfied that nobody would easily guess that that patch of snow was any different from the rest, and then he settled down next to a boulder with the other end of the fuse and a pack of matches, letting himself be covered in snow to seem yet another boulder.

During all this, I had stood watch, revolvers ready if the beast came upon us before we were ready. Now came the far less pleasant task, as I was required to put my revolvers down and, as much as possible, turn my back to the snow covered dynamite. I had carried a couple of chairs out of the closest house and set about breaking off the legs, pretending to be engrossed.

Around me, the snow whirled and the wind howled, and I wondered if I was not a fool, if Rory would not let the wendigo leap upon me and devour me after all?

At one point I turned around, abruptly, and in truth I had heard no noise to prompt me to do so. Even as I turned, I knew I was making a fool of myself.

The wendigo was staring right at me.

It was tall, taller than a man, a rack of antlers stretching towards the cloudy sky. Below the antlers its eyes glowed evilly, red like embers, and the lips of its muzzle had been pulled back to reveal a ragged set of unnaturally sharp teeth, not entirely unlike those of a shark.

It was standing on the other side of the dynamite field.

I took a step back, and the thing took one forward, its ears flickering briefly. Another step and another step, and it was standing perfectly in the center of the dynamite field. It was time for Rory to blow the demon to kingdom come.

Except he didn't, and the thing took another step forward, making me back one more step up. I found myself panicking, fumbling for my revolvers as clumsily as I never have before or since, and my next step back lead me to step on one of the chair legs I had been breaking. It rolled beneath my foot, sending me tumbling, and the wendigo gathered itself for a leap, roaring triumphantly.

Except that was no roar.

The dynamite finally exploded, engulfing the monster. It screeched like an injured deer might screech, rolling in the snow with its fur on fire – but it was not yet dead.

”Sorry,” Rory rumbled as he climbed to his feet, shaking off the snow and working to light the torch he'd brought along, ”the fuse was crappier than I thought.”

He strode towards the wendigo, firing his shutgun into the thing's back, and it tumbled to the ground, and then he plunged the now blazing torch into the wound left by the shotgun blast. The thing screeched and bucked as I watched, unsteadily climbing to my feet, and then, finally, it lay still.

At the time, neither us of knew that Rory had accomplished the very thing required to send a wendigo to its final rest: he had melted the lump of ice the thing has instead of a heart.

And then the most curious thing happened. The antlers upon its brow seemed to crumble, like snow falling apart, and the singed fur seemed to shed, leaving human skin behind.

Rory frowned and bent all the way down – a precarious-looking undertaking – and rolled the dead wendigo on to its back.

There was no mistaking Clyde Mardon.

”We need to get back!” I exclaimed, but Rory was already moving, his powerful body forcing its way through the snow at a speed I would not have thought possible.

Later, he'd confirm that he had had the very same thought that I had – that Clyde had been with us in the barn at the time Mr. Van de Berg was slain, and that neither of us knew the current whereabouts of his brother, Mark.

When I reached the barn, stumbling through the snow, Rory was still outside, spouting obscenities. Somebody had blocked the barn door firmly from the inside, and try as he might, the centaur could not hope to force them.

I managed to draw his attention to a part of the barn wall next to the door, where a hole had been hastily fixed with a few boards just a few days earlier. It took just a few kicks for the boards to go flying, leaving a hole still far too small for a centaur, but plenty large for me to squirm through.

Inside the barn was the second wendigo.

Its rack of antlers dwarfed even the set which Clyde had had, and the thing was snarling as it stalked towards where Snart had put himself between it and the two Wilder orphans.

There was a smell of powder inside, and there was something about the way that Snart held his pistol that told me that he had already spent what bullets he had had and was now merely bluffing, desperately trying to hold the monster at bay.

At the time, I could not tell whether he had simply missed, or whether his aim had been perfectly true and the beast simply hadn't cared. I simply had to trust that my revolvers and my silver bullets would have some effect.

The monster sprang forward, head lowered to gore Snart upon that deadly sharp rack of antlers.

I fired my revolvers. Just the one time each, for there had only been enough silver for me to get a single pair of bullets. I would simply have to make them count.

The monster stumbled in its attack, screaming and landing halfway on top of Snart, who had mostly managed to dodge, and then it was silent.

Snart staggered to his feet, hand pressed against his side where blood had started to seep out where his coat had been torn by one of those wicked antler points, and glared at me.

”Well, it's about f***king time, Pinkerton. What kept you?”

Perhaps it was sheer relief at the monsters finally being dead, but I could not help but start laughing at that.

***

Afterwards, there were many practical matters to tend to. The children had to be calmed, Snart's injury needed tending, and – first of all – the barn door had to be unblocked before Rory did himself an injury trying to get in. I politely turned my back upon their reunion and set about trying to accomplish the first of those tasks myself.

The next day we put the Mardon brothers into the mine shaft and Rory used what dynamite he had left to bring the roof down upon them. We were all certain that that would be the last we ever saw of them.

How little we knew back then.

Of course, we know far more of wendigos nowadays, which allows me to hazard a guess as to how the entire messy situation had come about in the first place. It is my belief that the early cold had woken the Mardon brothers too early from their aestivation. They must have picked the Wilders as likely prey and called the blizzard down to isolate them, intending to use the abandoned mining town as a pantry of sorts until winter came in earnest and they'd be free to roam and hunt. I assume that they used the wagon and sundry belongings of previous victims to play the part of fellow travellers, allowing them to stay close to their chosen prey.

The arrival of Snart, Rory and myself disturbed their plans, although only just.

The morning after we have buried the wendigos, we woke to clear, blue skies, and we determined that the time had come to leave the accursed town. But before we could go, we had one more task.

We left the children in the barn as we fetched the frozen remains of their kinsmen and kinswoman, then built a solid cairn on top of them. At one end of it, we planted a makeshift cross. This done, we called for the children to come out, and joined them in saying a prayer over this the grave of their family.

Then we left the town of Rhyolite behind.

We had no hope of bringing the wagons through the snow. Instead we took the horses and divided them between us, so that Snart lead two and I likewise, while Rory carried the children on his back. After a couple of hours of hard walking, we reached the snowline. It was an uncanny sight. One moment we were walking through a winter landscape, the next it was once more merely autumn.

We parted ways here. Snart and Rory took a share of the provisions, and then Snart once more – and I could not help but still disapprove of it – mounted Rory, and off they went. Rory chose to gallop, presumably to stretch his legs properly for the first time in weeks.

I assumed that that would be the last I'd ever see of them, but as you'll see in the coming chapters, dear reader, I was sorely mistaken.

As for myself, I took the children and rode in the opposite direction. Barely a day later we came across a camp of cattle wranglers, who willingly shared their dinner and fire with us. The next day they lead us to a rail line, where they assured us a train would pass in just a matter of hours and so it did. Thus we made our way home to Central Waystation, where the sheriff was fortunately entirely distracted by the two children put into his care to have time to tell me ”I told you so.”

***

Having given the matter some thought, I have decided that there are parts of this chapter which I do not feel the world is as yet ready to hear. The country has come a long way since my youth, but I fear we still have a long way to go. Therefore, I shall write another version of this chapter, editing out any unsuitable references, which will be used for my published ”Memoirs”. This draft I will leave, along with certain other papers, in the care of my grandson Bart, in the hope that some day it can come to light.

***

**Editor's note:** The above text was found in the collection of papers and various other materials donated to the Central City Archive in 1903 by Bart Allen, which came to be known as The Flash Archive. The above chapter, as well as the similarly un-censored drafts of chapters 8. and 13., was in an envelope, which came with the stipulation that it was not to be opened until the 21st century. This explains why they were not included in the previous edition from 1988. We have chosen to include all three chapters alongside the original ones in this edition of Barry “the Flash” Allen's ”Memoirs”, as we feel that they are important to the understanding of the famous lawman. Also, they provide what seems to be confirmation of certain theories, long held by certain corners of academia, regarding the personal relationship between the famous outlaw Leonard Snart and his partner, the Hybrid-American Mick Rory. 


End file.
